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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29105787">Who Lost?: an examination of the initial MAG192 audience response</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Meta - Fandom, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...neither of those are in a sexual context it's just, Academic Essays, Age of the Beholding (The Magnus Archives), Audience Studies, Becoming an avatar, Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Behavior, Episode: e192 An Appointment (The Magnus Archives), I did research again, MLA format because TCW's not my mom, Meta, Monsters, Other, Sadism, Statement Addiction (The Magnus Archives), Statement Hunger (The Magnus Archives), The Beholding Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Visuality, Voyeurism, monster theory, what does human even mean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:08:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,114</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29105787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An examination of one current of the audience response to MAG192 - "An Appointment", as seen within the crucial pre-193 window.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Beholding &amp; Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus, The Beholding &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, Banned Together Bingo 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Who Lost?: an examination of the initial MAG192 audience response</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><code>Too Fantastical</code>. Like the contention this show might be doing something different from what all the horror theory we know says horror is for.</p><p>There is the question of ethics in terms of quoting people's comments on this episode. I have cited one piece of extended meta identifiably, on the grounds that the author did opt into being part of this metafictional conversation. Other quotes are anonymous and, insofar as that's possible, decontextualized from their individual origins. </p><p><b>Please do not identify any of the anonymous posters</b>, or their respective source websites/etc., in the comments or elsewhere. It's not important - this is about a gestalt audience reaction, not any individual person, and indeed part of the point here is how rarely people spell those readings out - and fandom already has endemic issues with people seeing citation or close reading as tantamount to harassment. I don't need or want anyone to a) force engagement by parties who do not wish to do so or b) undermine my efforts to minimize risk here. </p><p>Thank you.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>Note: the following essay contains spoilers for <em>The Magnus Archives</em> through episode 192. Arguably it just <em>is</em> spoilers for episode 192. You will not get much out of it other than spoilers for episode 192 if you lack that context and don't otherwise want to obtain it. This note is very large so you can, should you choose, turn back in order to avoid engaging with the detailed information about the content and meaning of episode 192.</h3><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The last spoken words of MAG192 are, in the Archivist's voice, describing the current status of one Jonah Magnus: <em>"He won."</em> In the not-quite-week since, the fandom has been awash with statements that he must by definition hate the experience of doing so. There is no basis in the text for this to date; there's two centuries of basis outside the text to believe otherwise, which is what these audiences are reiterating, for a variety of their own reasons.</p><p>The most vocal audience response has been the not even assumption but <em>assertion</em> that this is "karmic irony" punishing him for his role in the plot of the show (apocalypsokane). Sometimes with arguments but usually taking this as a given, people assert that, as "Jonah sold his soul to an eldritch god" (anon.) and the eldritch god in question is a) putting him in his (inferior) place and b) sapient enough to do so, demonstrating how "it's clear no avatar can ever fully lose its humanity" (anon. 2) and become something that wants what he sought. He is "fully feel[ing] the consequences of his actions for once" (anon. 3) and has reaped only experience that he hates. The mindless abstract concept, the metaphysical force, of fear he has aligned and defined himself by must be punishing him, unlike "the Archivist's big fancy demigod upgrade" under that same aegis (apocalypsokane); optionally, we have the "hopeful camp that sees this as the Eye clearly picking Jon as its favorite" (apocalypsokane) to round out why this is proof positive he is also about to humiliatingly die (per MAG189).</p><p>As I write this, we are scant days away from what will, one way or another, be the show itself's first opportunity to provide an answer on the subject (in terms of public airdate). It would be <em>possible</em> for what I want to be disproven, and for an outcome hostile to everything I value to result; I am aware that this is always a possibility, and that the kind of people I'm examining would find themselves vindicated by that effect. Precedent of how this series works, the speed at which its final episode is approaching aside, suggests that what's most likely is for 193's content to be - or rather, to be treated as - inconclusive, failing to disprove the readings I'm here to examine (and thus in all likelihood seen as confirming them by people invested in such things), and this will go on for the next seven weeks the way it has for the past three or more years.</p><p>However, for the purposes of this argument in particular, <em>none of those options matter.</em> If new content from 193 renders it outdated within days, then <em>that</em> content will have done so. What matters - what brings me here - is that support for these readings does not exist in the text; that it has never existed in the text; and that the reason for people to veer towards such interpretations anyway (sometimes to the point of becoming convinced even if they don't like them!) is about enforcing social norms the show to date is defined by subverting.</p><p>I realize that there is nontrivial irony in me saying here that these readings are not supported by the text and then largely skipping past proving it with reference to specific episodes first. (I would quite like to do that, also, at a later date, presuming it remains possible to - or find the turning point post-192 that changed it, if I must.) I ask that you take me at my word that there's an absence of textual support even beyond that implied by the rest of this essay's inline explanations, for now.</p><p>The question eating at me here with regards to my fellow listeners - what I need, right now, to get into, at the expense of close reading I would also like to do - is as follows: if they're not speaking from the text itself, where are they speaking from? The answer lies somewhere between inheritance of the nineteenth century's "central Gothic conventions of evil, socially reinforcing both the horror at the criminal deviant's radical otherness, and the sense of the mysterious, hidden nature of human evil" (Halttunen 6) and the twenty-first century's idea of monsters.</p><hr/><p>Once upon a time, the medievalists in monster theory explain to an extent far beyond the scope of this paragraph, monstrosity as a social concept was defined by being glaringly physically obvious. Through various effects on popular thought, the Enlightenment jeopardized that, resulting in an eighteenth- and nineteenth-century initial scramble to determine what exactly was supposed to be monstered instead. The outcome: a focus on the idea that, far from being an initial horrifying assault on one's sensibilities to even behold the monstrous, the thing to be abjured is the idea of a monster hiding in plain sight. (Amusingly enough, this plays out in discourses of xenophilia in the form of people asserting humanoid monsters are unattractive, unknowingly reiterating their own society's definition of what monsters should be truly untouchable and reprehensible.)</p><p>"The recurring concern underlying contemporary monster narratives is that, through a sort of retroactive causality, we can now only determine the monster's presence through its effects." (Weinstock 287) This produces twin anxieties held in tension with one another: a desire to explain through similar retroactive causality <em>how</em> this could have happened, in order to control the idea of it, which Weinstock locates in twentieth-century fiction; and a need to distance oneself from any possible understanding of monstrosity, proving personhood and moral goodness - proving that its surprising nature, coming out of nowhere to destroy, couldn't possibly be inside you.</p><p>The roots of modern horror fiction in the Gothic mean including that burgeoning genre, in its combined fiction and nonfiction forms of the 1800s, "repeatedly and ritualistically failed to assign meaning to [monstrous acts, ie] crime because it sought to comprehend radical human evil within the larger context of Enlightenment liberalism, which did not recognize radical human evil" (Halttunen 4). Horrible acts - as exemplified with murder, defined as the ultimate evil and thus used as a moral tutorial - were explained with reasons a person must have been defective, traumatized, or malfunctioning in a way that defined them before the commission of said acts, only for this explanation to fall flat every time "some men and women murdered despite their good religious and moral upbringings; some murdered without any discernible motive; and some killed coolly and dispassionately." The resulting tension named and defined our genres at hand by prescriptively establishing that people must react to their vicarious witnessing of such terrible things with, specifically, <em>mystery</em> and <em>horror</em>, the outgrowths of the Gothic we know as fiction genres now.</p><p>Even in cases where the resulting genre tropes <em>are</em> played straight for audience consumption in the attempt to explain a terrible thing today, Weinstock stresses that "rather than producing actual understanding, the monster is [often] inserted into a familiar, but nonsensical, narrative--an origin story that presents the semblance of logic, but under closer scrutiny is revealed to explain very little at all" (288). He's describing situations where those stories play out explicitly, over and over, to the point that audiences expect - and want - them; the irrationality is external, what happens when it's evaluated outside the genre-trope context of 'did it make me, a self-assigned reasonable observer, feel better'. "The narrative is comforting because it is familiar . . . so it is received as making sense", in a collaborative, collective effort where "the attempt is again and again to <em>see</em> our monsters for what they are, to bring them into view, to understand them, and thus to gain some control over them" (289). When it comes to the emotional genre components of these narratives, horror fiction still retains some of its mysterious cousin, and vice versa: the mystified response means not understanding, on an emotional level, how the monstrosity under examination could have come to be; the horrified one entails fear, disgust, and dismay at suffering being (almost) the only options for emotional response. (The exception being when the victim of something that would be horrifying is a monster - when they can be said to deserve it, and the outcome is framed as a moral good to enjoy. We can see such attitudes even in fic metadata, like "it's bad but it's happening to Jonah so it's fine", where this appeal is made explicit at last - the audience openly invited to temporarily embrace sadism, with the promise that, this time, it doesn't <em>really</em> count.)</p><p>What people <em>expect that they have been sold</em>, when they buy a horror/monster narrative, is the belief that the concept of that monster will be ultimately controlled - becoming pathetic either in order to be <em>sympathetic</em>, or, if sufficient humiliation and defeat doesn't make it renounce its ways one way or another, in order to be contained and destroyed. Belief in human goodness must be "protected from the potential threat of major transgressions by the imaginative creation of a monstrous moral alien, separated from the rest of humankind by an impassable gulf" (Halttunen 59), and when these imaginaries are working in an entirely fictional context, there are two options to explain how the audience got close enough to passing that gulf anyway to witness some kind of story: either the monster is disempowered and revealed as a malfunctioning human whose sphere of influence was ultimately insignificant, or it goes the way of Halttunen's nonfiction objects of examination and simply - albeit agonizingly - dies.</p><p>Starting, as so much of the audience constantly and vocally does, from the assumption that the Eye 'chose' Jon already, is one manifestation of this value judgement: we've seen five seasons of Jon grappling with pain, conflict, and doubt in the context of becoming a monster. When characters experience such emotions and suffer in ways made legible to the audience - especially when they're actual mains - this is most commonly in the context of redemption-recovery arcs, ones where the harm they do to other people will cease and/or be turned against deserving parties, ones where doubt will turn to regret will turn to remorse. <em>Cessation</em> narratives, in other words, evoking how the audience also spent season 3 (during which Jon contextualizes his relationship to reading statements as being similar to his relationship to cigarettes as a smoker who's repeatedly failed to quit) vocally denying any resemblance to addiction/dependency, then moved on in season 4 (during which Jon consumes statements as food) to addiction comparisons in order to assert that 'detoxing' - from eating food. - was possible, desirable, and nonfatal.</p><p>In this case, the tendency to run one step behind - at length, prescriptively, and sometimes while addressing it as a moral imperative - seems to be related to people reading one instance of Jon experiencing conflict or suffering, and extrapolating a different, more normal Storyline In Which a Main Character Hurts from it, because a) that's what they're used to an audience like them experiencing such scenes leading to, and b) for some people, there's an additional factor of motivated reasoning leading them to double down on doing so. After all, given (b) - if they're reading that normal a story, then they know how to feel out where it's going, don't they? And they must be reading that normal a story; after all, they've been at it for so long, and they like it so much. (After all, even for those who aren't balancing their expectations based on a wider pan-genre idea of what narrative is, "horror is probably the most convention-bound of all popular genres" (Clover 212) such that "the very repetitiousness of fear-inducing scenarios . . . is prima facie evidence of horror's central investment in pain" (213), and reiterating a story means knowing how it ends, doesn't it?)</p><hr/><p>Carol Clover set forth - in what started as an analysis of slasher film but has almost-unlimited other uses, in my opinion - two forms of gaze in horror, when theorists largely antagonistic to the genre had been generally thinking of there as being only one. In so doing she provides the prototype for how horror audiences today do respectability politics by way of relatability, as well as indications of how, exactly, <em>The Magnus Archives</em> uses vision in unexpected ways (that a substantial portion of its audience reflexively or willfully rejects).</p><p>First, recognized and condemned as potentially immoral to engage with before she began to write, is the <em>assaultive gaze,</em> the predatory, sadistic viewpoint of that which causes horror narratives - the monster, the killer, the sadist, the enemy (and maybe - if the audience decides they're angry - the author). The new one is the reciprocal <em>reactive gaze,</em> represented by protagonists and innocent victims and experienced by the audience. "If the emotional project of the first gaze is to assault, the emotional project of the second is to be oneself assaulted--vicariously, through the process of projection in both senses" (174). Alignment with the reactive gaze leads audiences to perform Halttunen's near-ritualistic experience of mystery and horror, for a masochistic thrill in the moment and the guaranteed reminder that they're on the right side when the safe closure of the end of the fictional narrative removes them from that victimized standpoint.</p><p>When any of that process is disrupted, things get weird.</p><p>I don't think I need to explain what the prospect of the villainous, plot-driving assaultive gaze played straight (not that there's anything straight in this situation - but that's another story) has to do with Jonah at this point. It's fairly blatant. Less intuitively so, however, is the fact that, when it comes to defining a harmful, malicious, evil gaze that exists as the ultimate governing source of transcendental fear, <em>The Magnus Archives</em> swings both ways.</p><p>In-universe, over the course of five seasons and one apotheosis, the Archivist moves from occupying "the horrified gaze of the victim" to "[gazing] at surrogates for [his] own past victimized self" in the way that's supposed to be the remit of the extradiegetic <em>audience</em> (Clover 175). The Archivist is Clover's reactive gaze embodied. But what does the show itself do with that? At first at a slow burn and then at extremes, the protagonist of <em>The Magnus Archives</em>'s arc is one of developing and embracing a reactive gaze that <em>victimizes</em>. That is what he does; that is what sustains him throughout when he runs the risk of dying mid-series (MAG119 through 122); over the course of seasons 3 and 4 he established on tape, even as he discovered more about how exactly his actions did tangible harm to innocent victims not by accident but by definition, that he enjoys what he is and does not want to stop. Through these experiences compounding on each other - though often in unanticipated ways - he has turned himself into something which <em>cannot</em> stop even as the cost of doing so, as paid by his victims, increases. The show at first flirts with a more morally-upright and victim-centered expression of sympathetic, horrified observation, only to upend it explicitly and implicitly, with lengthy explanations and through the actions of the cast, at every possible opportunity. Jon's reactive witnessing violates and consumes, even to the point of superseding existing trauma (MAG120, MAG142) in those who experience him as the worst thing in the world.</p><p>Ultimately, the reactive gaze expressed by the Archivist shares both the aegis of Beholding and the role of being "predatory, penetrating, murderous, at once brutalizing . . . <em>and recording that brutalization</em>" (Clover 173, emphasis to point towards the medium of the show itself added) with the assaultive gaze it's supposed to contrast with, even as the narrative enacting such violence by being recorded is generally "after the fact, at some contemplative distance" the way reactive gazing demands. The audience, meanwhile, by and large has experienced the show through watching him watch all of this in turn.</p><p>("There may be no such thing as purely masochistic spectatorship," Clover admits, ". . . but the job of horror . . . is to give the viewer as pure a dose as possible" (179). <em>The Magnus Archives</em>, necessarily operating within the intimacy of the audience's mind's eye given its medium, has by all accounts turned toward... something else. Possibly, should it continue defying explanation within the context of horror theory in its commentary on the genre itself, something that may well pose "rebuke to traditional methods of organizing knowledge and human experience" (Thesis III, Cohen 7) in the context of people talking about the horror genre as a whole - from the metafictional perspective, for reasons we will approach by the end of this essay but that by definition invite further examination and defy a complete accounting, the show itself might be a monster.)</p><p>Part of the argument setting forth what turned out to be a respectable/defensible version of the horror audience for people with a motive was that for the overwhelming majority (and thus the most likely to seek respectable legitimacy) of audiences, "the real investment of the genre is in the reactive or introjective position" (211-2). In serving its real audience, far from celebrating the assaultive gaze, horror existed to subvert it - another way the genre was "a mechanism for emphasizing the distance between the murderous and the morally normal" (Halttunen 57) - showing cracks in that horrible viewpoint initially and driving an end through those vulnerabilities as vindicating closure for the majority audience. The fundamental source of that vindication being, specifically, how fundamentally <em>un</em>aligned with the assaultive gaze (and allied with the reactive) an audience must be, having suffered through everything they've witnessed in order to not be anything like the inciting cause of the suffering they're witness<em>ing</em>.</p><p>Halttunen, although writing primarily about the nineteenth-century origins of what would become true crime as well as horror fiction, suggests this is integral to how works and their audiences justify themselves, a now-well-trodden sort of emotional call-and-response: "Through [the] private emotional experience of horror, isolated readers did not transcend the evil, but rather were mired down in it, immobilized and speechless in their alienation and disgust, without even the possibility of assigning meaning to it" (59). The conditions of the show put two twists - and force multipliers on expression of discomfort when it's relevant - on that experience: while a single horrible narrative allows people to shake free when it ends, guaranteeing closure in the sense of being done engaging even if the audience sees it as unsatisfying and defective in the end, <em>The Magnus Archives</em> is a years-long ongoing serialized show. And it airs online, where participatory audiences simultaneously remain intrinsically alone and band together in order to redefine their relationship to media, with those redefinitions remixing and reiterating emotional demands previously expected to be private.</p><p>When it comes to those demands, not only is evil - is playing the sort of game that Jonah Magnus has now, textually, won - ostensibly <em>unintuitive</em> to comprehend, it is a moral imperative that any effort to do so by a means other than inserting the crushing loss of a fallible humanity fail. Someone at such an extreme must be "someone who had dramatically deviated from a nature conceived as inherently good and self-governing. . . . [because] evil [is] not natural; it represent[s] a monstrous distortion of our intended nature" (Halttunen 46-7). In order to safely reproduce the social norms this entails, when it comes to sight and seeing in particular, the promise that the monstrous assaultive gaze is self-defeating <em>must</em> be integrated into the existence of that gaze itself, such that</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>So common is the theme of failed gazing in horror that I would venture as a rule of the genre that <em>whenever</em> a man imagines himself as a controlling voyeur . . . some sort of humiliation is soon to follow, typically in the form of his being overwhelmed, one way or another (Clover 210)</p>
</blockquote><p>This promise is integrated even into close brushes on the part of the audience with the assaultive gaze itself; "There are horror passages that would seem to position the spectator at least temporarily as an assaultive gazer," but their doing so consists of calling "blatant attention to its own insufficiency and instability" (211). When the audience gets close to a malicious, predatory gaze, it's just the better to see the cracks in its facade of pretending to power - or presuming to exist at all. "Over and over, horror presents us with scenarios in which assaultive gazing is not just thwarted and punished, but actually reversed in such a way as those who thought to penetrate end up themselves penetrated" (192), a status defined by powerlessness - after all, it's a forcible relocation into the reactive gaze position, and its supposed harmlessness, with none of the audience sympathy. For Clover, the conventional promise is that by the end of the story, that assaultive gaze (and its source) will be dealt with, the world in-universe generally washed free of their influence and the audience always able to locate the experience they've just endured back in the safety of fiction. One way or another, fiction that does this is characterized by an ultimate promise of restraint and containment; the monster is trapped and the audience is free.</p><p>But this containment, no matter how beat-for-beat conventionally executed, is still ultimately <em>incomplete</em>. From early horror we find that when someone's "conduct [has] placed him outside human nature" (Halttunen 47) he must be brought to heel back within that sphere of humanity, a punitive process based in suffering and resulting in the more easily-wrangled production of either a human victim or a human corpse. But - to our other plank here - monster theory is founded on the contention that something like Jonah will never quite "<em>fully</em> <em>feel</em> the consequences of his actions for once" (emphasis added) after all, not in a way that prevents audiences from going through this experience all over again as soon as they turn to a new narrative - because, when it comes to outside context problems of evil, they're still "treating each case as an extraordinary event, a peculiar episode demanding a unique explanation" (41), replaying that interest-disavowal-containment arc all over again.</p><p>Defining the nascent discipline, Jeffrey Cohen made central the fact that the monster, that "harbinger of category crisis" (Thesis III, 6) who is used to "[police] the borders of the possible" (Thesis V, 12), still, ultimately, "<strong>always escapes</strong>" (Thesis II, 4, emphasis added). Escapes to be reiterated in another story, yes - but also escapes comprehension in this one. Weinstock summarizes part of why as being that the monster "can never finally be known or captured fully--which is part of its monstrosity" (277).</p><p><em>The Magnus Archives</em> seems poised at this point to demonstrate a corollary to these assertions: that, with an audience faced with a complete picture of the monster at hand, it will still escape the observers' understanding. Explanation within the text - in the amount of detail simpler takes on horror say must by definition diminish its effects - dissipates under the force of social scripts saying that it cannot and will not - and <em>must not</em> - become comprehensible. Even before the question of whether a given listener <em>wants</em> to avoid such interpretations or to embrace them, it is only by projecting acts of enforcement contradictory to the show as written onto its text that these readings emerge, and are treated as coherent, in the first place.</p><p>The bedrock of why is about taste, comfort with the genre, and rationalization of the hope for an end that we have been told will not come, but - before any of that - it's about people trying and failing to square their identity <em>as people</em> with their presence in the audience in the first place. Of course it appears virtually impossible for the show to belabor its point enough for us to see it recognized; a substantial amount of the audience, who often identify themselves as being all of it, are not in conversation with the podcast at all. At the extremes, in some cases, their own words imply they believe they wouldn't survive the experience. Ubiquitously, two centuries of self-justification by the genre itself says the <em>concept</em> of such an experience must be impossible to conceptualize at all.</p><p>Meanwhile, following where we left off on "<em>He won</em>" and our traditional ominous recorder click, MAG193 ("A Stern Look") is scheduled to be released to the public on February 4 at 00:00 UTC.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>Bibliography</b>
</p><p>apocalypsokane. "On Jonah, Appointments, and the Change." <em>Death is inevitable! Live like you know it!</em>, Tumblr, 28 Jan. 2021, <a href="https://apocalypsokane.tumblr.com/post/641588228717215744/on-jonah-appointments-and-the-change">https://apocalypsokane.tumblr.com/post/641588228717215744/on-jonah-appointments-and-the-change</a>. Accessed 31 Jan. 2021.</p><p>Clover, Carol. <em>Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film.</em> Revised ed., Princeton University Press, 2015.</p><p>Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. "Monster Culture (Seven Theses)." <em>Monster Theory: Reading Culture</em>, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, University of Minnesota Press, 1996, pp. 3-25.</p><p>Halttunen, Karen. <em>Murder Most Foul: The Killer and the American Gothic Imagination.</em> Harvard University Press, 1998.</p><p>Weinstock, Jeffrey Andrew. "Invisible Monsters: Vision, Horror, and Contemporary Culture." <em>The Ashgate Research Companion to Monsters and the Monstrous,</em> edited by Asa Simon Mittman and Peter J. Dendele, Ashgate, 2013, pp. 275-92.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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